


Glue

by yeaka



Category: Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping (2016)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Open Relationships, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7490886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conner misunderstands things, but Owen’s stuck with him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Swimming’s never as fun as it used to be, because the pool’s always filled with a couple dozen groupies that’ll dump Conner the second he goes bankrupt, and when Owen mutters half to himself, “Man, we gotta invite Lawrence to swim sometime,” Conner stops talking to him for half an hour. The three women trying to share the one-person crocodile floatie become all of Conner’s world, and Owen’s left to do boring laps on the less-occupied side and try to convince himself to just _leave_. He knows he has an unhealthy problem with craving Conner’s presence, just like the rest of the riffraff scattered about the pool that didn’t watch Conner grow up like he did. He really does miss Lawrence—with a third person around to always mediate, there were a lot few fights. 

At least, until the fighting blew up to the point where Owen really had to pick a side, and his brain’s still not sure he picked the right one, even if his heart is. He wasn’t drawn to Lawrence like a magnet, but at least Lawrence didn’t ditch him over one wrong word.

He’s just about to give up and go inside when Conner shouts, “I’m gonna go get some beer,” over the din, and despite the six or seven people that eagerly clamour to join, Conner adds, “Owen, gimme a hand!”

Lawrence would tell Conner to fuck off. But Owen’s never had that power, and he wades begrudgingly to the side of the pool to climb out. Conner waits for him on the grass, looking irritatingly perfect with his creamy skin soaked wet and his thick hair stained darker by the water, the summer sun beating down to wash him in a shimmering golden glow. Most days, Owen can see why Conner’s the one everyone wants. Other days, Owen can’t understand how his childhood best friend made it to the top of the world. 

Conner doesn’t say a word to him on the way inside, but does wave over his shoulder and swap jokes with the nameless crowd behind him, promising a swift return that’s most likely a lie—Conner never fetches his own beer. It’s all the more obvious something’s wrong when he winds them around the side of the house instead of just going through the glass door in the back—he takes them all the way to a backroom by the garage, one with only one high window that’s always curtained off. Still dripping puddles everywhere, they step onto the carpet inside, and Conner shuts the door behind them, immediately twisting the lock. Owen just stands there, vainly hoping that Conner will say, _‘You’re right, man. Let’s call Lawrence.’_

Instead, Conner turns and stalks across the room, walks right into Owen, and keeps going so Owen’s forced to step back until his shoulders hit the wall. He has maybe a second to think before Conner’s hand is fisted in his hair, the other clutching at his hipbone, and then Conner’s mouth is slamming into his, smacking his skull painfully against the white plaster. Owen makes a noise halfway between startled and pained, but it’s lost down Conner’s throat. Then Owen’s eagerly kissing back, because he has absolutely no self control when it comes to Conner, and for all of Conner’s deficiencies, kissing isn’t one of them. He devours Owen’s mouth with a professional efficiency and a searing hunger that fizzles out Owen’s brain in a heartbeat. Conner’s tongue in his mouth is always something he wants, Conner’s body against his so familiar and _right_. With their skin still wet, it’s easy to grind into one another, and Owen can feel every last muscle on Conner’s front, all the clear definition, the rub of his nipples and the strange prickle of recently-shaved chest hair. Conner’s skin is always blazing hot, but even in the intense summer warmth, Owen craves it. He slips his arms back around Conner’s body, idly touching everything. Conner makes him dizzy.

Conner kissed Owen like this when he begged Owen to stay with him after Lawrence left, and even though Owen knew the humility was fleeting, he couldn’t say no. Right now, he doesn’t regret it. He often fantasizes that Conner will retire tomorrow and they’ll just do _this_ all day, every day.

For a fair stretch of time that’s never quite enough, this is all there is. They make out like the teenagers they haven’t been in years, Conner grinding Owen into the wall and Owen struggling to breathe under the intensity of it, the heat and pressure of Conner’s nose digging into him, Conner’s chest flattening his, Conner’s hands caressing the back of his head and reaching around to squeeze his ass. Every other bad thing Conner’s done all week falls away under this delight. Owen couldn’t live without him. 

Then Conner finally releases his mouth, and while Owen groans and breathes, Conner nips at his jaw, nuzzles into his cheek, licks down to his neck and up to his ear. Amidst a slew of affectionate touching, Conner mutters, “Suck my dick?”

It’s the least romantic phrasing possible. But Owen nods against Conner anyway, always unable to refuse Conner anything. Conner kisses his cheek with a self-satisfied smirk, and Owen slips around Conner, knowing Conner likes to have a wall to lean against. He sinks to his knees on the now-damp carpet while Conner pushes down his trunks, completely shameless. The cock that springs out is already hard, but it’s easy to make Conner aroused. Owen could do it in his sleep. He hesitates a little, like usual—it comes less naturally than some of their other activities. But then he looks up at Conner’s face, and he’d do just about anything to make Conner _happy_ , so he opens as wide as he can, conscious of his teeth, and descends over the mushroom head. He used to work himself up to it with licks and kisses and other sorts of foreplay, but Conner often just wants _sex_ , so Owen gets to it. He closes his mouth around the tip and sucks, taking way too much pleasure in the way Conner moans. 

As soon as Owen starts to slide down, he has to pin Conner’s hips to the wall with both hands—if he doesn’t, Conner will hump his face and choke him, even though Conner should really know by now that Owen’s skills are rocky at best. He’s always worried he’s going to scrape his teeth over Conner’s most sensitive area, and it makes his jaw sore to hold it open, and he feels like he’s going to gag every time he gets to the root. He makes his way there anyway, slower than he knows Conner would like, and tries to suck as hard as he can when he’s sure he’s got a steady hold. It took a long time to learn to get Conner down his throat, but it was worth it for the way Conner looks at him with such _devotion_ —one of the few times Conner ever will—and the way Conner tosses his head back and swears, “Fuck _yes._ ” His hands come down to run through Owen’s hair, tugging a little too hard, but Owen loves the contact, loves every bit of it, even loves the weight of Conner on his tongue, the thickness of Conner in his mouth. It’s uncomfortable but bizarrely enjoyable, and Owen vacillates in that dichotomy while he bobs up and down on Conner’s cock. 

The longer it goes, the better it always gets, the more he gets into it, gets more confident and moves faster, harder, hollowing out his whole cheeks with his suction—Conner falls into a litany of moans and runs his fingers back around Owen’s head. Owen can feel his own cock straining against his trunks, trying to rise in response just from the raw smell of Conner’s crotch and the bland taste of his skin. By the time they’re fully involved, Owen’s one regret is that Conner always comes too soon—sucking his dick is one of the fastest ways to get him off, but Owen _does_ enjoy it...

Owen can always tell when Conner’s close. Right before the finish line, Conner suddenly hisses, “Swallow this time.” Owen looks up at Conner, automatically making a disgruntled face that’s probably ruined by his mouthful of cock, but he knows he’ll try to do it. Then Conner throws his head back again and cries out, foreshadowing his orgasm by half a second, and it comes bursting into Owen’s mouth. He’s got Conner’s cock down his throat and splutters and tries to pull off, but Conner’s hands keep him over the head while the rest of Conner’s load pools up in his mouth and starts spilling down the sides. By the time Conner lets him go, the spray’s over, and Owen’s struggling not to gag. He lets go of Conner’s hip to wipe the back of his hand over his chin, his mouth already gathering the cum to spit out in the nearest garbage. Then he remembers Conner’s request, and he forces himself to swallow it. The first attempt almost has him choking again—it’s warm, thick, a little sticky and difficult to take down, but he makes an effort to do it. The stuff smeared across the back of his hand he sucks off in one go, attempting to swallow it too and wincing at the taste. It’s not exactly _bad_ , but it’s not entirely pleasant either. 

It’s worth it when he looks up at Conner after, who beams down at him like he’s just performed a particularly amazing magic trick. Shaking his head once, Conner sighs, “You’re _so_ hot.” Owen can feel his whole face turn red. That’s it, he’s screwed. He’s going to have to swallow Conner’s load every time now, because Conner complimenting him always makes him feel ridiculously _good_. 

For some modicum of dignity, he mutters, “It’s gross,” and wipes his mouth off on his other hand. 

Conner’s smile instantly disappears. “It’s not gross.”

“You’re not the one swallowing someone’s jizz,” Owen retorts, looking away and purposely not mentioning that Conner never is; he’s never once returned the favour. It’s probably because he’s still somehow managed to convince himself he’s completely straight, and Owen never wants to drag that out to fight over in case it makes Conner end this entirely. 

To make it worse, Conner asks, sounding genuinely exasperated, “Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

“ _I’m_ difficult?” Owen’s head snaps up to incredulously point out, “I do everything you want!”

Conner looks just as annoyed and snaps, “You complain about my cum!” In a mocking tone, he rolls right on, “You probably never did with _Lawrence_ —”

“I never sucked off Lawrence!”

“Then why are you always bringing him up?” 

For a moment, Owen’s actually lost for words. He _stares_ at Conner, tingling with an unusual spark of anger, while Conner glares down at him with the nerve to actually look like _Conner’s_ the one that’s been slighted.

Taking a deep breath, Owen tries to explain, “We both grew up with Lawrence. We did everything together. Of course Lawrence is important to me.”

Conner obliviously snaps, “So why don’t you go suck his dick on his shitty farm then?”

Again, Owen has to will himself calm. Because Conner never does. The sudden realization that Conner’s _jealous_ makes it slightly easier. It proves that Conner really does care about him, even if there’s any number of groupies that still get to crash in Conner’s bed. Deliberate and slow, Owen answers, “I love Lawrence _like a brother_ , Conner, but _you’re_ the one I’m in love with. There’s a reason I followed you and still follow you, even though you hardly ever listen to me anymore, and you’ve got all these other losers around all the time, and you fuck other people whenever you want even though you know I never do, and you make stupid homophobic songs even though you’re clearly bi and...” And there’re so many other things, but Owen pitters out anyway because he’s already said more than he wanted to. 

It did the trick. Conner’s face has fallen, twisted with his weird version of guilt that always comes so late in the game. Owen’s still grateful for it. He watches Conner waver and start to slide to the floor, until they’re sitting side by side with their now-almost-dry knees touching, Conner’s trunks stretched across his thighs and Owen’s cock almost entirely deflated from Conner’s accusations. 

Just to make sure the message got across, Owen clarifies, “I don’t do gay shit with Lawrence, okay?”

Conner doesn’t answer. He just reaches out to cup Owen’s mouth and drag him in for a kiss. If they hadn’t just fought over Owen calling things they do gross, Owen would point out that kissing him right now isn’t much better. The kiss is softer this time, Conner’s thumb caressing Owen’s cheek and their mouths slowly opening and closing against one another, trying to withdraw a few times and failing. At least Conner’s mouth helps wash the bitter taste away. 

Then Conner jerks back suddenly, hand still on Owen’s cheek and brow furrowed again. “Wait, I’m not doing gay shit—”

Ignoring that being on the receiving end of a blowjob from a guy doesn’t put him on a pedestal over the giver, Owen retorts, “You just kissed a dude after you came in his mouth.”

Conner does a one-eighty subject change and sighs, “God, I love coming in your mouth.” 

Owen grins more than he should. His hand comes up to hold the back of Conner’s, and he leans in for another kiss that he’s granted immediately.


End file.
